


you climb it up or you cut it down (this is your family tree)

by likecharity



Category: Royalty RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It'll be different, you know," William had said, "when I marry."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	you climb it up or you cut it down (this is your family tree)

**Author's Note:**

> I am so predictable sometimes it's not even funny. CELEBRATING THE ROYAL WEDDING BY WRITING INCESTUOUS FANFICTION, YOU GUYS. THAT'S ME. (To be fair, that's how I celebrate an awful lot of things.) Title from 'Sensitive Kid' by Cold War Kids.

it was you who were wildest  
it was you who floated above us all  
i held on with wires  
will you come back down if i let you go?  
i'm the one that's acting like i'm so strong  
you're the one that's acting like nothing's wrong  
 **—cold war kids; skip the charades**

All morning, Harry has been smiling. William is a nervous wreck, but Harry seems oddly calm, grinning peaceably at everyone and everything for reasons William cannot fathom. He doesn't have much of a chance to dwell on it, the chaos of the day increasing with every minute, and it's only during a brief private moment while they're dressing that William gets a chance to bring it up. 

Watching William fastening his trousers, Harry is still smiling. Just a slight quirk of his lips, almost a smirk, as though he's remembering a secret joke.

"Stop that," William snaps. He doesn't mean for it to come out so harshly, but it does. He's stressed, and his fingers slip on his zip, his hands sweaty. "Why are you smiling?"

Harry looks a little surprised. "I'm happy for you," he says simply. His smile widens. It's almost infuriating, but William is irritable, he knows, high-strung from anxiety.

"You're not happy for me," he retorts without thinking. He tries again with his zipper; the teeth catch on his nail and he curses under his breath. 

Harry chuckles and comes closer, reaching forwards. William starts, and sighs at himself, exasperated. He lets his brother gently prise his hands away, replacing them with his own, and he listens to the gentle sound of the zip drawing up smoothly. William rubs his forehead with the back of his hand in agitation, and Harry chuckles again, a low soft sound.

"Why wouldn't I be happy for you?" he asks. He hasn't stepped back, his hands still on the waistband of the trousers, fingertips tucked between fabric and skin. His fingers are cool and it's comforting, though William knows it shouldn't be. "My brother is getting married." His voice lowers and he leans in closer, inclines his head almost as if to whisper in William's ear. William drops his head, and he can still hear the smile in Harry's gruff voice. "I'm his best man. Why shouldn't I smile?"

William won't say it.

***

A few nights ago, he had tried to explain. He had laid beside Kate waiting for her breathing to reach the easy rhythm of sleep and then slipped from the bed and crept down the hall, bare feet padding along the gently creaking floors. He thought about how many times Harry must have done this, remembered the early days of hearing the footsteps before his brother learned which floorboards to avoid, a careful dance of quiet from one bedroom to the next. And now it was William's turn to navigate in the dark, in the silence. For the first time, and, perhaps, the last.

Harry did not seem terribly surprised to see him. He was awake, but had been near sleep when William gently pushed open the door. He had shuffled aside, all sleepy smiles and ruffled hair, the bare skin of his chest hot beneath the sheets. He held William close with the casual manner of a lover, slipping an arm around him with ease. Perhaps not like a lover, William had thought at the time—perhaps like a brother comforting a brother, as though they were young boys fearing a storm. Only then it should have been the other way around. William is older, more composed and responsible; but he let himself be held in his little brother's arms like a scared child.

They lay still, in silence, for a long time. And then Harry's hand slid low, began to toy with the drawstring of William's pajama trousers. 

"It'll be different, you know," William had said, "when I marry." He had blurted the words out when he had meant to have a real discussion of it, had thought out everything he had wanted to say and forgotten it all at the merest brush of Harry's fingers against his stomach.

Harry had laughed as he eased the pajamas down past William's hips. "Mmm. You being married, that's what'll _really_ make it wrong."

Harry has never cared too much about Kate, does not care that Kate has William as long as he gets to have him too. It's only when William has attempted to halt their own relationship in favour of Kate that Harry has lashed out, though these attempts have never succeeded, and perhaps that's why Harry doesn't seem to quite believe him now.

"I mean it," William warned, and he hadn't wanted it to be like this, hadn't wanted to get tough with him. But Harry has always had difficulty taking this seriously. He will go the lengths to keep their secret, but he doesn't seem to feel the guilt the same way William does. He feels it like a constant gentle throb, like a heartbeat, something he has grown used to, while for William it has always been like a deafening pounding of drums in his brain, something he can't ignore.

His breath hitched as Harry's hand found him, his body reacting automatically to the touch. Harry slid down, settled between William's legs instead, and William began to babble, not protesting, just wanting to make his message clear. The script he had planned out for himself was gone, though, and he was left grappling wildly for words.

"Shh," Harry soothed, and he may not have agreed, but at least it seemed that he understood. "One last time, then."

William hesitated, his hand over his own face, looking down at Harry through his fingers. He nodded, then, slow and deliberate, and let Harry's mouth envelope him, let Harry's strong arms hold him down, let it all happen and then returned the favour with his brother spread out on the bed before him, a pillow muffling Harry's moans. It was so familiar, so easy, that even then, William did not truly believe it would be the last time.

***

"You don't think I meant it," William says, swallows around the words uneasily and darts his eyes to the doors out of habit. 

Harry smiles blithely, makes a gesture halfway between a shrug and a shake of the head.

"Don't do this," William hisses. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

He can't believe that Harry might simply not care; he remembers the tantrums thrown in the past when he would try to put a stop to this, remembers the passion and the fights and the way they would always, always come back to each other. 

And in that moment he feels suddenly sick at the thought that this time, they might not. It seemed inevitable, somehow, that he would put an end to it when the wedding came, so much so that he didn't even give it much thought. It seemed like something that simply had to happen, and he worried only about how Harry would take it, not his own feelings. After all, he is the one getting married today, the one who has another love in his life and is about to assure that he will be with her forever. Til death do them part.

And perhaps he has been too caught up in it, the excitement contagious, distracting. Because now, alone in this room with Harry, with Harry's fingers against his skin, Harry looking him in the eye with that slight smirk on his lips—William forgets all else and cannot _stand_ the thought of this being all there is. The thought of the two of them being simply brothers. The thought of never again being able to touch Harry like he used to; kiss him, hold him, make him come.

The pain of it breaks him open so suddenly and so painfully that Harry's smile, his untroubled demeanor, is even more difficult to understand. It's the complete opposite of what he expected. He expected Harry to spend the day sullen and sulking, acting like Kate was taking William away from him. He had expected Harry to accost him the first moment the two of them were alone, and kiss him, tell him not to do it, not to marry her, or to beg him to continue having them both. He had expected an outburst, an explosion, and maybe deep down he had been hoping for it. For an excuse to let it all unravel.

And Harry isn't giving it to him, and what does that mean?

"You're nervous," Harry observes. He pulls back, and William can still feel where his fingers were. 

"Of course I'm nervous," William snaps. "Don't change the subject."

Harry says nothing. He slips William's shirt from its hanger, and helps a reluctant William into it, sliding each tensed arm into the cool fabric of each sleeve. He begins to button it and William does not protest. He wants to say _I can dress myself, you know_ , but he's not sure that he can. His hands are clammy and shaking a little. Harry tucks the shirt into the trousers. William has been dressed by someone else before, all brusque and businesslike with practised hands. This is not the way Harry does it; Harry is slow and careful and deliberate, almost torturously so.

"I meant it, you know," William murmurs. He doesn't even know if he believes himself anymore, but he wants Harry to believe him, wants a reaction.

Harry won't give it to him. He doesn't speak, instead lifts up William's heavy jacket and eases him into it. It is a weight on William's shoulders. Harry straightens the sash, pulls the belt tight, steps back as if to admire his work. He is still only in his trousers, and they are unfastened, a triangle of white boxer shorts visible where they open. Their image in the adjacent mirror is strange, William thinks—he sees himself, the full military uniform bright, extravagent, official; and then his little brother, bare-chested with bare feet, trousers undone, messy—but in some ways it seems oddly perfect, right.

"You look good," says Harry. He manages to make it sound emotionless, somehow, a simple statement of fact, not a real compliment, with no hidden meanings.

He brushes the jacket down, though it's not at all necessary. The thing is spotless, but Harry wipes from it invisible dust and lint, and the slide of his hands over William's torso makes William ache. In a flash, without thinking, he grabs at Harry's arms, finds his fingers clenched tight around them.

" _Stop it_ ," he implores, and then, words falling from his lips before he has a chance to hold them back, "you're driving me crazy."

His grip loosens; his hands fall and he crumbles.

"I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily. "You're being...you're being very mature. I'm sorry. I should be thankful." 

He swears under his breath again, and Harry says "hey," takes him by the hand, smoothes soothing fingers over his skin. William feels Harry's thumb against the frantic pulse in his wrist. It adds fuel to the fire, somehow; William misses him like they haven't touched for years, misses him fiercely and hungrily. He wants to pull his hand from Harry's grasp and get as far away as possible, or he wants to push him up against the wall and fuck him, deep, slow, forgetting everything.

He does not do either. He stands and he quivers under Harry's touch, and he thinks of Kate, and wedding vows, and the thousands of people who are gathered outside, and he leans into his brother as though they're being drawn together by some outside force. Their foreheads touch. William is sweating, his uniform thick and hot. He wants Harry to kiss him, wants it with every fibre of his being. There are footsteps and chatter outside, and he doesn't even care. He is leaning in for the kiss, wanting it so badly that he doesn't even realise that Harry is still, standing straight-backed, simply waiting.

Suddenly, from outside the doors, they hear a loud clatter and raised voices. They jerk back from each other automatically, and it's habitual—they have experienced this many times before, an interruption while intimate, and have grown adept at disguising incriminating situations. Harry turns his back, pulls on his shirt and busies himself with buttoning it, and William turns to inspect his reflection in the mirror. He looks pale and drawn, his eyes full of worry. He turns and sees that Harry is flushed and flustered, but he cannot look at him for too long. It hurts in some strange, indiscernible way, deep in his core. 

The moment is gone, now. They have lost it. The tension has been built, but has no place to go.

***

It was 2002, in the summer, when it began. In truth, perhaps, it had begun long before that—their behaviour had been something more than brotherly for a long, long time, the two of them brought closer than they perhaps should have been by their mother's death. But it was 2002, in the summer, when William first felt his brother's lips on his own, tasted his brother's tongue. Brought his brother to the edge and over with his own hand, and had the same done to him. 

Harry was home from Eton for the holidays, and had spent a night out with friends, come in loudly in the early hours of the morning. Camilla woke when he knocked over a lamp; she found him giggling in William's arms halfway up the stairs. William had promised he would get him to bed. Harry was not eighteen for another couple of months, but they let it slide. William's instinct was to lecture, but he hadn't seen Harry so happy in so long and it made his heart ache. He still remembers how that felt, how Harry's giddiness seemed almost contagious, how he'd tried to lead Harry to his bedroom and they'd ended up in William's room instead, Harry diving face-first onto the bed and dragging William down with him.

William had just turned twenty. Should have known better.

But it was coming up to five years since she died and only Harry understood how it felt, and William was lonely and Harry seemed happy, so happy, in a way that William hadn't seen in so long—eyes sparkling and grin breaking his face. University had been stressful, and William was tired, tired of wanting and pretending that he didn't. But he had no excuses—he knew that when Harry pulled him close with a strong, sure hand on the back of his neck, he should have drawn away instead of going in with all his heart, open-mouthed, desperate.

Perhaps he had been waiting for it then, too. Had seen it in Harry's eyes often enough, and tried to push it out of his mind, but deep down it was something he had almost expected. 

They brought each other off with clumsy hands, lying sideways on the bed, on top of the covers, as the sun came up outside William's window. Harry kissed him and kissed him and would not stop kissing him, promised never to stop kissing him, and then fell asleep, head lolling on the edge of the bed. William repositioned him, covered him with a blanket, and lay awake beside him for the few remaining hours of the night, unable to sleep a wink.

***

"Hey." William nudges Harry, gently, a tiny subtle gesture that he's confident the crowds and cameras will not pick up on. 

It has been tense between them, but as the day has progressed it's been easier. There have been more pressing matters to attend to, for one thing, and they are used to this, in a way—adjustment, adaptation, recovery after arguments or frantic fumbles in hallway corners. Gradually, they become brothers again. And again, and again.

"Are you _crying?_ "

He is. No one else would notice, perhaps, but William recognises it almost instantly, despite the fact that Harry is silent and his expression does not change. His cheeks are wet and he wipes at them hurriedly.

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, quick and quiet enough that no one but William will hear.

William is startled by the words, and thrilled like a child, hearing a naughty word on this solemn occasion, in this place of worship. It's such a contrast to the atmosphere around them, and he has to hold back his laughter. And he is quite sure, somehow, that Harry's tears are tears of joy—that he truly _is_ happy for him and in this moment, that's all it is. Maybe, _maybe_ underneath it all, it's the reaction William has been hoping for, maybe Harry is finally feeling that all-encompassing sadness, that wretched ache that knocked William down not so long ago, but the grin on his face suggests otherwise.

"Wait 'til you see her," Harry had whispered as Kate came down the aisle, his eerie calm detachment gone and replaced with nervous energy, pure excitement for his older brother.

***

The after party that Harry has thrown is in full swing. The two of them have been mingling so much that they have barely seen each other, and there's a constant nagging in the back of William's head, a persistant worry. He is relieved that Harry is acting more like himself, but still William is waiting for something. He wishes that Harry were by his side, clinging and needy, or perhaps even possessive, dragging him from Kate for more champagne. 

Harry is acting like any other brother, any other best man, and maybe that's what's so frustrating. He doesn't seem to care about any changes or any loss, and William realises now, a little drunk and a lot more relaxed with the stresses of the day behind him, why this is. Harry doesn't believe that he is losing anything. He hasn't accepted that things are going to change at all.

William spots Harry across the room and excuses himself, weaves his way through the crowds and ends up right next to his brother, who is telling a very animated story. He waits patiently until Harry is finished, and then asks for a word. Harry, heaving a long-suffering sigh, relents, and follows him back through the crowd. William leads him to the nearest bathroom. Locks the door behind him, telling himself this isn't a conversation that should be interrupted. He needs to make himself loud and clear, no matter how much it hurts. The two of them need to be on the same page, and then perhaps today can be the beginning of something, a new life without the complications of their relationship. 

William paces. "I meant what I said. I just want to make that clear."

Harry nods. Leans against the wall in the gap between two sinks, casual as anything. 

"I don't feel like you believe me," William says, and it comes out weak.

"I believe you," Harry says simply. "You're married now. It would be unfaithful." 

He still seems a little bit mocking, and it makes William angry. Maybe he's angry because he knows that Harry has a point, that none of this should have happened in the first place, that they have had plenty of chances to stop and have ignored them, why should this be any different? And it's so tempting to go that way, and he knows that if Harry were to laugh at him now, tell him he's overreacting, and take him in his arms and kiss him—William would let himself melt into it, let his resolve crumble.

But Harry is not doing that. Harry is pretending. Humouring William, going along with him and his lies to himself, acting like he believes them. It would be better, maybe, if he really _did_ believe, if he broke down crying or fought out against it. William could comfort him, apologise, let Harry persuade him to let it continue, or they could shout and scream at each other until they attacked and their lips met in an angry kiss.

But this is nothing, this is nowhere. This is a game, a pretence—it _all_ is. 

"So why don't you try acting like you care?" William bursts out, frustrated. He has lunged forwards, confrontational, blocking Harry's path as though he thinks he might try to leave. His hands curl around the rims of the sinks on either side of Harry's body.

"I'm trying to do what you want," Harry says, and William doesn't even know whether or not to believe him anymore. He grinds his teeth, looks down at the floor. Harry leans in and his voice is soft. "What good would it do if I make a fuss, Wills? If this is what you really want, it's going to happen. Me throwing a tantrum about it isn't going to change anything."

"This _isn't_ what I really want," William grits out.

Their bodies are so close now, William can feel the heat of him. He longs for him. He's never been the one to start this, never—has always waited for Harry to sneak into _his_ room at night or drag him off somewhere private, has let Harry be the aggressor to alleviate his guilt. And he wishes that Harry would do it now. Harry has always understood William better than William understands himself, knows what he really wants even when it's seemed unclear, but now it seems that they are miles away from one another, even as their hips touch, even as William can feel Harry's breath.

William is coming apart. "Kiss me," he breathes, weak, the words hardly there, barely even a whisper.

Harry's eyes are on his, dark and intense, but he doesn't speak or move, and William wants to beg. It makes him angry, how hard it is for him to leave this alone. His fingers tighten around the porcelain of the sinks, he presses ever closer, and he can't stand it anymore.

He breaks. His hands come up, cold, and cradle Harry's flushed hot face, and he crushes his mouth to his brother's in desperation, almost whimpering with the relief of it. Harry goes slack against him, arms wrapping around him instinctively, pulling him closer as he opens his lips to the kiss, lets William deepen it. The guilt is there, as always, pounding out its relentless rhythm in William's head, but it seems it will never get the better of him. He is mostly just glad that Harry is here, that Harry is reciprocating, that he has not lost him.

There is an eagerness in Harry's response that makes William think maybe this is what he wanted all along—for William to give in like this, to prove how much Harry matters to him, so much so that he will leave the celebrations on his wedding day in order to kiss him in a bathroom. He isn't used to such insecurity from Harry, and he isn't sure how to feel about it. He might talk to him about it, or he might feel manipulated, but that will come later, if they can face it. A few rooms away, Kate is waiting for her husband to return. She will grow concerned soon, maybe start to look for him.

For now, though, there is only this: lips soft against his own, chest pressed so close that he can feel another heartbeat, hands roaming over his back. And, most importantly, a promise of more.


End file.
